Birthday Gifts
by torchwoodtimelord
Summary: Sherlock and John celebrate John's 53rd birthday. - A Sherlock!Wizardverse short - rated M just to be safe towards the very end.


**Title:** Birthday Gifts  
**Series:** Sherlock!Wizardverse  
**Fandoms:** BBC!Sherlock/Harry Potter  
**Pairings:** johnlock, mention of dimmock/ofc  
**Author:** Z-sama (dA user _the-lady-harkness_) and TWTL  
**Beta:** none

**WARNINGS:** sherlock's name should be its own warning, slash (obviously)

**MISC:** We don't own Sherlock, nor do we own Harry Potter... Check out bonus content on the Sherlock!Wizardverse tumblr... _**sherlockmalfoy . tumblr . com**_

* * *

"Oh no you don't mister," the red haired woman proclaimed, grabbing the rambunctious little dark haired hellion just before he could reach the table covered in presents. "Those are for your dad."

Bright blue eyes narrowed as he whipped that dark, curl covered head around to glare at her.

"I grew up with your father. That look doesn't work on me, love," she said, keeping her arms wrapped tight around him as she dragged him away from the table. "Go play with Teddy's horde."

He opened his mouth, and for a moment she thought he might actually speak. Instead he snapped his mouth shut again and the moment he was released stormed off in the opposite direction of the other children.

"Paul!" she snapped, hands on her hips as she surveyed the ballroom. "Paul! Where the bloody hell have you got to?!"

"Paul?" came a snicker from behind her. "His name is Paul?"

She whirled around to see two ten year olds, a boy and a girl, surveying the gift table. The boy held one box in his hand and gave it a bit of a shake. "A coffee mug. Dull," he said, handing the box over to his sister before picking up another. She inspected the tag quickly. "Oh, it's from Mr. Perkins... Well, in that case, a mug's quite brilliant."

"You two stop deducing your dad's gifts!" Lily snapped, shooing them away. "And tell Paul-"

"Dimmock," the boy said in a haughty tone of correction that would make his father proud.

"Tell _Paul_ I need to see him," she snapped. "He was supposed to tell me when the caterers would get here."

"Dad really doesn't do big birthday to-dos, Lily," Harriet said. "He's more of the quiet, sit-down type."

"That's _aunt_ Lily to you young lady. And might I remind you that this was your father's idea in the first place. So don't go sassing me."

The girl rolled her eyes as her brother moved back to the table for another wrapped gift, only to pull his hand back with a hiss after getting hit with a slight stinging jinx.

"Try that again," Lily said, waving her wand at her nephew, "And I will petrify you."

"You wouldn't."

"She would."

The twins stiffened as they saw the tall, lanky figure stepping up behind her. "Father," they intoned. "We were just curious about-"

"You'll see it all soon enough. Besides, I've already been through them-"

"Sherlock!" his younger sister snapped, whirling around to pin her older brother with an angry green stare. He, like his children upon seeing him, stiffened. Quickly realized his reaction was childish and cleared his throat before speaking again.

"Sister, dear, has anyone told you that you look like an angry cat lady when you make that face?"

The twins stifled their laughter and took this chance to slip away while their father and aunt were trading insulting remarks. They hurried through the room, splitting up briefly to ensure that it didn't look like they were up to something. Soon they were together again, out on the terrace with two identically wrapped small boxes.

Hudson grinned, giving his box a shake. "I didn't think it would actually work."

"What do we do with these now?" his sister asked, eying her's carefully. Without looking away she said, "Good work with the diversion, Hal. Though, you could have dragged it out a bit."

The boy pulled a couple of gold coins from his pocket, handing them over to the smaller, silent boy. "I don't suppose father's going to tell us why he wanted the gifts switched out," he said. "He could have done it himself."

His sister smiled. "Lily's put charms on the table to keep father from tampering with it after he's put his gifts in. That way, he can't change his mind and take it back."

"Ah... That's why we had to switch them out, so that the count remains the same."

The quiet one was counting the money in his hand before glaring back at them. He held up his other hand, three fingers up while the remaining were tucked into a loose fist.

"No. We agreed on two galleons. And that's all you're getting."

His blue glare was cold and angry. The twins looked at one another, silently conversing before nodding, one after the other. "Fine," the boy said, reaching back into his pocket for a third gold piece. Once the transaction was complete, the cold angry glare turned into a wickedly bright smile.

Once he was gone, the pair returned to their musings. "We could just open them now," Harriet suggested.

"We could.. But where would be the fun in that? Besides, we still don't know what father has planned for them. If he notices we've tampered with them..."

"I would be very cross with the both of you."

As one, they turned to the terrace door to see their father standing there. "Hand them here," he said, hands out. Reluctantly they handed the presents over, but not without question. "Why'd you have us switch them?"

"I had brought the wrong gifts. I had specifically instructed Molly to use a specific paper for each one. Instead she used... generic cheerful paper with bright and colourful bows."

"And you don't do bright and colourful bows," Harriet snickered.

"No, I do not. Now back inside with the other children before your grandparents assume you are up to nefarious schemes."

"Yes father," they intoned boredly, not really wanting to bother with the other children. Teddy's grandchildren were alright, but those Weasleys...

He stopped them when they passed. "And don't deduce the Weasley children to tears again. Their elders are still very displeased with your displays at Christmas."

"But that was months ago! Mr. Ron can't possibly still be upset about-"

"Hudson, as much as I despise stifling your intellect, your dad's birthday party is not the time to offend every single guest."

"Even if their name is Paul?"

"Especially if their name is Paul. Father does not like Dimmock. Finds him too... common. Which means that I would greatly encourage my sister to continue with her engagement." This caused identical wicked smirks to cross their little faces, followed by nods of understanding.

Once he was alone, Sherlock shrunk the two gifts and placed them into his pocket, thankful that one crisis was averted for the day. Stepping back inside, searching for his sister to notify her that he was about to leave and fetch his husband, he prayed Mycroft wouldn't find the cake before he returned.

**o0o**

John had barely gotten in the door of the B level when he was accosted by his husband. "You're late."

"Yeah, well, muggles don't schedule getting sick."

"They schedule appointments."

John raked a hand down his face with a groan. Despite his looks, nearly frozen in his forties, he was getting too old for this old argument. "I know. I'm sorry," John said, feeling he shouldn't have to apologize at all, yet not wanting to start a row on his birthday. "Where are the kids?"

"With my mother."

"Right. Dinner. Just let me freshen up and-"

"There's no rush," Sherlock said, moving out of the way for John to pass. The smaller man gave him a naughty grin and a slight shake of the head, saying as he started undressing on the way towards their bedroom, "That's what you said this morning. And I was an hour late to work."

"It's your birthday," Sherlock replied, following him. "It is socially acceptable, though I still do not understand why such mundane information as having been born into the world is relevant only on one specific date of the year, to give one's spouse extra attention on such a day."

By now John was in his pants at the wardrobe, rooting around for something decent and clean. "Sherlock, do you mind?"

He scoffed. "Why? I see you naked regularly. How is this moment any different-"

"Because if you keep standing there while I'm half naked we won't make it to dinner."

Sherlock feigned annoyance, leaving the doorway of their bedroom so that John could finish picking out his clothes. He waited just long enough to hear their shower running before returning to the bedroom. One look at the clothes laid out on the bed and he shook his head, quickly replacing them with clothes he felt were much more suitable.

Then he removed the two gifts from his pocket, enlarged them to their proper size, and left them with the clothes. As much as he wanted to join his husband in the shower, John was right. They would be late. Instead, he placed himself in their sitting room, in his chair, and picked up a book. He hadn't really been reading, but wanted to appear to have made himself busy while John was otherwise occupied.

After the water had shut off, the detective waited. Counting down the minutes it took John to dry himself, then check to see if he needed another shave. He wouldn't, and would then proceed out of the en-suite into the bedroom in three... two...

"SHERLOCK!"

"Your chosen attire was abysmal."

"It was comfortable! You know I hate those bloody trousers you picked out!"

"I don't see why. They've been tailored and make your lower half look quite nice."

A few moments pause, a drawn out groan of defeat. "Fine..." came the muttered response from the bedroom.

"Open your gifts, John," Sherlock called from the sitting room, turning the page in his book.

The faint tear of paper. A pause. Then repeat. Silence. Sherlock smiled knowingly.

Soon John emerged from the bedroom, buttoning up the plain blue shirt he had originally picked out (Sherlock's choice of black with black trousers was a bit too dramatic for his tastes) and was fighting trying not to blush.

"I take it you rather like them?" No response. Sherlock snapped the book closed and let it fall into the chair once he'd stood.

John cut his eyes over. "You know we won't get a chance to use-"

"The children are staying with mother and father tonight."

"Oh, well then. That's... Well, that's good."

"And the other?" Sherlock asked, raising a brow. John rolled his eyes, hooked a finger into the waist of his trousers and tugged them down just enough to show the bright red beneath before he let go and tucked his shirt in.

"So are we using a floo? Apparating? Portkey?"

"The floo at Grimmauld. Mummy has confiscated my wand." Before John could ask what he'd done to deserve it, he continued. "Hamish was quite insistent on trying to turn cousin Teddy's granddaughter into a duck."

John gaped at him, then narrowed his eyes and reached for his arm when his husband started for the door. "You let our youngest child, who I remind you is as devious and sinister and possibly as dark as you, have access to your wand."

"I did not let him do anything. He's become quite the pickpocket. I am glad to see that his skills have improved. I hardly registered the difference in weight of my pockets."

John sighed. "Well, at least he didn't manage to do anything... Wait. Teddy's granddaughter?... Sherlock, how many people are going to be there? I thought this was just a small, quiet family affair. I don't want a big fuss tonight."

"It is a small, quiet family affair. Only family has been invited. And the Weasleys." At John's horrified expression, Sherlock patted his arm. "Mummy insisted. It's not all of them. Just Ronald and Hermione's brood. Now come along. The longer we wait, the greater chance my brother has of finding where we have been forced to hide your cake."

**o0o**

The 53rd birthday of John Watson-Holmes had started the same way his previous birthdays since 2016 had begun. A nice, leisurely morning shag. Unlike most previous birthdays, he and Sherlock did not work a case. Instead, he actually had to go to work. Not that his job was exactly steady, but it kept him busy, and gave him some semblance of normalcy in a life filled with wizards, a creature husband, and of course solving crimes and other mysteries.

He'd never been one for large parties, but sometimes he would make an exception. Like for Christmas... He preffered small gatherings of a handful of close friends and family. But since his husband's return from the dead, they had been subjected every year (save the two when Sherlock had been pregnant) to Draco and Harry's (mostly Harry's) annual Christmas party.

And though just a bit uncomfortable with having such a big fuss made for his 53rd (it's not even an important number. Not like 50, or 60) anniversary of making it another year around the sun, he mostly enjoyed himself. Because he'd learned from Lily that it was Sherlock's idea to have a party in the first place (a fact that, in itself, was both unusual and amazing). And he'd discovered he felt quite naughty wearing his new pair of bright red pants. Which was bloody difficult whenever Sherlock flashed him that small, secretive smile of his. Reminding him of the other gift he'd gotten with them, waiting at home.

When things had finally settled down, and guests had trickled down to just a few, John was ready to go back home. He was a little tired, but that was because he'd had a rather long day at work, followed promptly by a rather nice party. However his tiredness paled in comparison to his excitement, and anticipation, of what was to come when he returned to Baker Street.

After a few farewells (and helping Harry run his three grandchildren off to bed) Sherlock is given his wand back so that he may shrink John's gifts to take them home.

Not wanting to waste the remaining hours of John's birthday, Sherlock had apparated them back to Baker Street, and they'd hurried home with the bags of gifts. These were promptly abandoned once they were inside, tossed into the hall when Sherlock had grabbed his husband and slammed him against the wall at the base of the stairs. Mouths attempting to devour one another in desperate, sloppy, moaning kisses.

All tiredness and fatigue from the long day had left the doctor, only to be replaced with the overwhelming realization that there were far too many clothes. When Sherlock finally broke for air, releasing him with panting breaths, John groaned, frustrated with the sudden break in contact.

"Upstairs," Sherlock breathed out.

John reached out and seized him, pulling his face back to meet his own in a bruising kiss that consisted of far too many teeth biting down into the taller man's lower lip. "My birthday," John rumbled lowly. "You don't make demands."

Sherlock's pupils were so blown there had been hardly any of the pale color left to them. "Is that an order, _Captain_?" One dark brow raised in challenge, only to be answered by a heavy, hungry blue stare and words shrouded in the promise of confirmation.

"Damn straight it is."

In a flurry of lankly limbs and wool coat Sherlock sped up the stairs, taking them two at a time with John hot on his heels. The birthday boy lost sight of his husband when he reached the landing, slipping through the door quickly. But there was no losing Sherlock between the door and the bedroom. Not with a trail of discarded clothes in his wake. As he hurried through the flat, John's clothes joined the trail of black and purple and shoes.

He was just kicking his trousers away when he reached the door. Sherlock lay across their bed, pale skin making him almost luminous against the dark sheets that John didn't remember being on the bed when they'd left earlier. He paused, taking in the sight of Sherlock spread out before him wearing nothing but a scarf loosely around his neck and his penetrating, ever observant gaze. Already John could feel the other man processing him, analyzing him. Deducing him. And it sent shivers down his spine.

"You opened my gift without me," John said, fighting to maintain his commanding tone.

"And you've still got your pants on," Sherlock replied as John crossed the room quickly to climb onto the bed. To crawl up along those long legs and trap them beneath him as he settled himself upon his husband's middle. Calloused fingers reaching out to touch the purple fabric left trailing down his chest.

Sherlock watched with great interest as John fingered the fabric, knowing full well what this particular kink of his husband's usually did to him. "It's very expensive."

"I'll bet," John murmured, giving it a gentle tug, tightening the loop around Sherlock's neck just a little. "Silk," he said, letting his fingers examine it closely. "Crepe satin back... Oh god. Sherlock, you're-"

"Wonderful? Amazing? Extraordinary? Incredibly aroused and desperately needing to get off with you?"

"I was going to say devious," John hissed, leaning forward, letting his lips brush against Sherlock's. "But those work too."


End file.
